


Let Your Wish be Granted

by loquaciouslass



Category: Mahou Shoujo Madoka Magika | Puella Magi Madoka Magica
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Comedy, Dark Comedy, F/F, Fantasizing, One-Sided Attraction, Pining, Post-Rebellion Story, Romantic Comedy, Stalking, Unhealthy Behaviours, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-25
Updated: 2017-07-25
Packaged: 2018-12-06 15:11:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11603217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loquaciouslass/pseuds/loquaciouslass
Summary: Homura won. She pulled Madoka down from the skies and wrapped the universe around her, snapping threads of memory and becoming something like a god.Homura won. She destroyed the ties that could fight her or bind her, and she took her revenge as she pleased.Homura won. There’s no doubt about it. Shame that, even with all the godly powers in this world and the next, she’s still really bad at flirting with girls.Stage set, actors enter, try not to trip on your own feet.





	Let Your Wish be Granted

**Author's Note:**

> Don't be Homura kids, erasing your pal's memories and trapping them is Bad. 
> 
> Also I remember being a teenage girl and I was fucking awful at flirting. But at least the worst thing I did was accidentally get my crush to search for tits once.

Homura won. She pulled Madoka down from the skies and wrapped the universe around her, snapping threads of memory and becoming something like a god.

Homura won. She destroyed the ties that could fight her or bind her, and she took her revenge as she pleased. 

Homura won. There’s no doubt about it. 

Shame that, even with all the godly powers in this world and the next, she’s still really bad at flirting with girls. 

Stage set, actors enter, try not to trip on your own feet. 

 

Day One: The Girl Can’t Help It

There was something wonderful about being petty. 

From the moment she was dropped off at the orphanage to the last moments of the old universe, Homura wasn’t allowed to be petty. Petty grudges, the nuns had said, were the type of thing that God looked poorly upon. One should never be petty, even if God had decided that yes Homura, you  _ should _ have a crippling heart defect that will stop you going to those nice ballet classes, and yes Homura, you  _ will _ get in trouble for punching Sayaka in the face, even if she  _ is _ being an obnoxious loudmouth with bad hair. Pettiness will condemn you straight to hell, young lady, so mind your manners and turn the other cheek. 

Showed what they knew, thought Homura as she sipped at her juice and watched someone go flying over a tragically placed ice patch, in the middle of May. Tearing Kyubey apart had been nice, but it was the little things that truly made her heart sing. Wearing those skirts that were short enough to give those nuns heart attacks. Bringing food into class. Letting Kyubey get inches away from one of the world’s cracks and yanking him back through traffic. 

Little things. But of course, the best little thing was coming up the way, hair still in ribbons and hunched over herself. Homura grinned around her drink and drained it. 

“Madoka.” 

“Oh...um, hi, Homura.” 

“May I walk you to school?”

She offered out a hand, perfectly pretty with painted nails, and Madoka stared at it like she was going to be stabbed. 

“Aren’t we...meant to be enemies...or something?” Madoka said, voice rising as she took a step back. “I mean, you said that we couldn’t get along, right? So, um, I don’t think enemies really...do that.” 

Homura blinked. Right. That had happened. The horrible realisation that Madoka could bind the chains of memory back together and ascend once more, leaving Homura cold and alone. She flushed a little at the thought- maybe it had been a bit dramatic. Maybe there were other ways to declare unending moral conflict. 

“So, um, can you please- Homura, I don’t want to be late for school.” 

“Oh. I forgot.” 

“You’re not in uniform so...I thought you were playing hooky.” 

“...Do you want to truant?”

Madoka sighed and politely stepped to one side before walking along. “I really need to get to class.” 

“Right. Yeah. Of course. Bye.” 

She watched Madoka walk until her hair was nothing more than a speck passing through glass doors. And then Homura smacked her head against the table and groaned. 

Mortal enemies. Incompatible morals. Madoka was safe, no longer lonely and forgotten in heaven, but she was still ebbing away from Homura anyway. What was the point? 

Her little familiars started to crowd around her, giggling. 

 

Day Two: The Follower

Madoka always took the same route to school. She’d follow the river and then come past the tables, usually with some toast or a candy bar, glance over to the place Homura sat, and then trot along. It was a scenic route, and she took it regardless of the time, and Homura knew it because she’d followed her for the last week. It should have been a perfect set-up. 

But, even with a world under her thumb, it wasn’t. Because the world could be perfect, a softly lit pathway with sweets and rose petals leading to herself, sprawled seductively on a bed, and it still wouldn’t be perfect. 

Because godly power did not translate to  _ seductive _ power. 

Homura caught Madoka’s eye, just as a chocolate-covered strawberry passed through her lips. She tried to smile. 

All it did was push the strawberry to the back of her mouth, and Homura started hacking uncontrollably. 

At least she got to feel Madoka pressing up against her back as she tried desperately to stop Homura from choking. It laid on the ground, sad and broken, just like Homura’s seductive hopes and dreams.

“Homura, are you alright? Your face is very red still, are you sure you don’t need to go to the nurse?” 

“I’m...fine…”

“You don’t  _ sound _ fine-”

“I’m fine! No need to worry!” Homura tried to hop up. It turned into more of a scramble turned tussle with her own clothes. She flipped her hair and tried to ignore the way it caught on her spit covered chin. 

Madoka’s eyes were wide. The embarrassment seemed to have spread, just like the pink slowly drifting onto her cheeks. Homura coughed. “I, uh, think you’re going to be late.” 

“...Sure, okay. I’ll...probably see you tomorrow, Homura?” 

Homura just smiled, and let the wind carry her away. 

Which would have been a perfect exit, if not for the fact that even her own  _ world _ hated her, and she landed in a nearby bush. While Madoka was still looking. 

Feeling the soft hands again might’ve made it worth it. 

Day Three: After School

Homura didn’t wait outside the school in the morning. She wasn’t watching from the tables, or back in the trees. Homura was not in the classroom or the halls. 

Instead, Homura was eating a tub of strawberry ice-cream that would’ve made Kyoko cry actual tears, and roaming through channels like an explorer hunting for water. There was nothing worthwhile- a soap opera here, the news over there, a few anime-

There was one. Sailor Moon. 

Fine. It wasn’t as if she couldn’t erase it. 

It was half-way through some sort of arc Homura half remembered, where the pink girl was reaching out desperately to save her friends, and then there was something about death and love and something else. 

She kept watching. 

At least until the pink girl transformed, all tainted and dark and  _ horrifically good looking _ , and Homura had to bury her head in the empty container until it’d passed. It just wasn’t  _ fair.  _

Stupid magical girls. 

 

Day Four: Blank

She went to school the day after, because the house was still smoking a little and she couldn’t deal with the fires. Sometimes, they had to die away themselves. 

The school was still blank faces and meaningless people, but at least she had something nice to look at. Madoka, still in those pretty white socks, and had forgone hair ribbons this time. Her hair puffed around like a cotton-candy wisping away under a dark tongue-

Homura flushed. Now was not the time. Madoka hadn’t paid attention yet, outside of a tiny smile before the class started. 

But the smoke lingered in her mind and she wondered what Madoka would look like in black. 

 

Day Five: Hellfire

Madoka was beautiful in black.

Her legs looked long and bright in those stockings, and she had such a delightful blush under her sweet lashes, hair done up in black ribbons and black lace gloves running along Homura’s jaw. 

Madoka was always beautiful, soft and pretty, even when she looked  _ wicked _ . Even when Homura was making her look wicked. 

The copy faded into nothingness. 

Those nuns were right. 

The house was still burning. 


End file.
